


Fifty Shades of Green

by PlaidHunters



Category: Captain America (Movies), How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 50 Shades of Grey Fusion, Crack, I THINK ITS HILARIOUS, I can't believe I'm doing this, I'm so sorry, M/M, OMFG SO MUCH CRACK, Please Kill Me, THIS ISN'T SOMETHING I'M SERIOUS ABOUT, What Is Wrong With ME
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6959794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidHunters/pseuds/PlaidHunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uh, basically 'Fifty Shades of Grey' but with *gulp* The Avengers, and uh... the Grinch. please help me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WillowLong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowLong/gifts).



I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn James Buchanan Barnes for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, blonde-haired guy with blue eyes too big for his face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a hair clippy and hope that I look semi presentable.

Bucky is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grinch Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Bucky an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extra-curricular activities. 

Bucky is huddled on the couch in the living room.  
“Stevie, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Buck begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice. How does he do it? Even ill he looks gamine and gorgeous, dark black hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.  
“Of course I’ll go Bucky. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil orTylenol?”  
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”  
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.  
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”  
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Buck, would I do this.  
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Stevie – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Bucky talk me into this. But then Bucky can talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and he’s my dearest, dearest friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Bucky’s lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal. My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grinch’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twentystory office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Grinch House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating– glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate. “I’m here to see Mr. Grinch. Steve Rogers for James Barnes.”  
“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Rogers.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand selfconsciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Bucky’s formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only pair of fancy pants, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.  
“Mr. Barnes is expected. Please sign in here, Mr. Rogers. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in. She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.  
“Mr. Rogers, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.  
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Bucky for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I’m about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.  
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Rogers. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grinch is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.  
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.  
“Mr. Rogers?” the latest blonde asks.  
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.  
“Mr. Grinch will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?”  
“Oh please.” I struggle out of the jacket.  
“Have you been offered any refreshment?”  
“Um – no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?  
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.  
“Would you like tea, coffee, water?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.  
“A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.  
“Olivia, please fetch Mr. Rogers a glass of water.” Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.  
“My apologies, Mr. Rogers, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grinch will be another five minutes.” Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.  
“Here you go, Mr. Rogers.”  
“Thank you.”  
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work. Perhaps Mr. Grinch insists on all his employees being blonde. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive AfricanAmerican man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. He turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, Grinch.”  
I don’t hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!  
“Good afternoon ladies,” he says as he departs through the sliding door.  
“Mr. Grinch will see you now, Mr. Rogers. Do go through,” Blonde Number Two says.  
I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.  
“You don’t need to knock – just go in.” She smiles kindly.  
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.

Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grinch’s office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he’s so young.  
“Mr. Barnes.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Gary Grinch. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”  
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark green colored hair and intense, bright green eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.  
“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.  
“Mr. Barnes is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grinch.”  
“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.  
“Steve Rogers. I’m studying English Literature with Bucky, um… James…  
um… Mr. Barnes at Washington State.”  
“I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure.

“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.  
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.

“A local artist. Trouton,” says Grinch when he catches my gaze.  
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.  
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Rogers,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Bucky’s questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grinch says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.  
“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”  
“Take all the time you need, Mr. Rogers,” he says.  
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”  
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?”  
I flush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”  
“Did Bucky, I mean, Mr. Barnes, explain what the interview was for?”  
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”  
Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.  
“Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Grinch.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.  
“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating.

Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.  
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?”  
I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.  
“Business is all about people, Mr. Rogers, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses and fixes me with his green stare. “My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”  
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Buck’s list – but he’s so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.  
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Mr. Rogers. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”  
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.  
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Mr. Rogers,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he’d stop doing that.  
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues, his voice soft. “Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control Freak.  
“I employ over forty thousand people, Mr. Rogers. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”  
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.  
“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.  
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at me.  
I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he’s so  
arrogant. I change tack.  
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”  
“I have varied interests, Mr. Rogers.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Very varied.”  
And for some reason, I’m confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.  
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”  
“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.  
“Well, to ‘chill out’ as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.”  
He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very wealthy man, Mr. Rogers, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”  
I glance quickly at Bucky’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.

“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?  
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”  
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”  
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.  
“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”  
“Why would they say that?”  
“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.  
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Bucky’s list.  
“I’m a very private person, Mr. Rogers. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews,” he trails off.  
“Why did you agree to do this one?”  
“Because I’m a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Mr. Barnes off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire  
that kind of tenacity.”  
I know how tenacious Bucky can be. That’s why I’m sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.  
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”  
“We can’t eat money, Mr. Rogers, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”  
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”  
He shrugs, very non-committal.  
“It’s shrewd business,” he murmurs, though I think he’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense – feeding the world’s poor? I can’t see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.  
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”  
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”  
“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.  
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”  
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”  
“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Bucky has enough material now? I glance at the next question.

“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows.  
“I have no way of knowing.”  
My interest is piqued.  
“How old were you when you were adopted?”  
“That’s a matter of public record, Mr. Rogers.” His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap.  
Yes of course – if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research.  
I move on quickly.  
“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”  
“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.  
“Sorry.” I squirm, and he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again. “Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”  
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

“Are you gay, Mr. Grinch?”  
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I’m just reading the questions? Damn Bucky and his curiosity!  
“Yes Steven, I am.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.  
“I apologize. It’s um… written here.” It’s the first time he’s said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.  
He cocks his head to one side.  
“These aren’t your own questions?”  
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.  
“Err… no. Buck – Mr. Barnes – he compiled the questions.”  
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s his extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.  
“No. He’s my roommate.”  
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his green eyes appraising me.  
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.  
Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.

“I was drafted. He’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.  
“That explains a great deal.”  
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.  
“Mr. Grinch, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”  
“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”  
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She’s appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me.  
“Very well, Mr. Grinch,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.

“Where were we, Mr. Rogers?”  
Oh, we’re back to ‘Mr. Rogers’ now.  
“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”  
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His gren eyes are alight with curiosity.  
Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.

“There’s not much to know,” I say, flushing again.  
“What are your plans after you graduate?”  
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Bucky, find a place, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals.  
“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grinch. I just need to get through my final exams.”  
Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.

“We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?  
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I murmur, completely confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.  
“Why do you say that?” He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.  
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not female.  
“Not to me,” he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.

“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.  
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grinch, and I do have a long drive.”  
“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone  
is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.  
“Yes sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.  
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grinch.”  
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.  
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.  
“Until we meet again, Mr. Rogers.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.  
“Mr. Grinch.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.  
“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Mr. Rogers.” He gives me a small smile.  
Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.  
“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grinch,” I snap, and his smile widens. I’m glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I’m surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.  
“Did you have a coat?” Grinch asks.  
“Yes.” Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grinch takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grinch places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s distracting. His burning green eyes gaze at me.  
“Steven,” he says as a farewell.  
“Gary,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Grinch comes to see Steven at work. what ever will happen?! -The really creepy sex scenes are going to start at around chapter 4 I believe, so if you want to just skip to that I don't blame you. this is kinda boring.- Good Luck. You'll need it.

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium. No man has ever affected me the way Gary Grinch has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself – but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be – he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Bucky didn’t give me a brief biography. While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic – as if he had a hidden agenda. And Bucky’s questions – ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Bucky Barnes!

I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating green eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Grinch’s more like a man double his age. Forget it, Steve, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping radio playing 'Tubthumping' as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the 1-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want. We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Vancouver, Washington, close to the Vancouver campus of WSU. I’m lucky – Bucky’s parents bought the place for him, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. 

As I pull up outside, I know Buck is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and he is tenacious. Well, at least he has the minidisc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.  
“Stevie! You’re back.” Bucky sits in our living area, surrounded by books. He’s clearly been studying for finals – though he’s still in his red, white, and blue flannel pajamas decorated with cute little stars, the ones he reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. He bounds up to me and hugs me hard.  
“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”  
“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the minidiscrecorder at him.  
“Steve, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?” Oh no – here we go, the James Buchanan Barnes Inquisition.  
I struggle to answer his question. What can I say?  
“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see him again. He was rather intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “He’s very focused, intense even – and young. Really young.”  
Bucky gazes innocently at me. I frown at him.  
“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Bucky clamps a hand to his mouth.  
“Jeez, steve, I’m sorry – I didn’t think.”  
I huff.  
“Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy – like he’s old before his time. He doesn’t talk like a man of twenty-something. How old is he anyway?”  
“Twenty-seven. Jeez, Stevie, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.”  
“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject.  
“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” He smiles at me in gratitude.  
I check my watch.  
“I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton’s.”  
“Steve, you’ll be exhausted.”  
“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

I’ve worked at Clayton’s since I started at WSU. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the Portland area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell – although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of guy. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Mr. Grinch. We’re busy – it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton is pleased to see me.   
“Steve! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.”  
“My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.”  
“I’m real pleased to see you.”  
She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in the task.

When I arrive home later, Bucky is wearing headphones and working on his laptop. His nose is still pink, but he has his teeth into a story, so he’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained – exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with… him.  
“You’ve got some good stuff here, Stevie. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t take him up on his offer to show you around. He obviously wanted to spend more time with you.”  
He gives me a fleeting quizzical look. I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the reason, surely? He just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I hope Bucky doesn’t notice. But he seems absorbed in his transcription.  
“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?” he asks.  
“Um… no, I didn’t.”  
“That’s fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”  
I flush.  
“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed.  
“Oh come on, Steve – even you can’t be immune to his looks.” He arches an eyebrow at me.  
Crap! I distract him with flattery, always a good ploy.   
“You probably would have got a lot more out of him.”  
“I doubt that, Steve. Come on – he practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well.” He glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.  
“So what did you really think of him?” Damn, he’s inquisitive. Why can’t he just let this go? Think of something – quick.  
“He’s very driven, controlling, arrogant – scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at him hoping this will shut him up once and for all.  
“You, fascinated by a man? That’s a first,” he snorts.  
I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so he can’t see my face.  
“Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory.  
“Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date.”  
“It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.”  
“Oh, Stevie, it can’t have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you.”  
Taken with me? Now Buck is being ridiculous.  
“Would you like a sandwich?”  
“Please.”

We talk no more of Gary Grinch that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Bucky and, while he works on his article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Bucky has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday.

I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother’s quilt around me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and green eyes.

For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton’s. Bucky is busy too, compiling his last edition of his student magazine before he has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for his finals. By Wednesday, he’s much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of his red, white, and blue-flannel-with-too-many-stars PJs. I call my mom in Georgia to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making – my mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she’s bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week. She worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Bob – her relatively new but much older husband – is keeping an eye on her now that I’m no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.  
“How are things with you, Steve?”  
For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention.  
“I’m fine.”  
“Steve? Have you met someone?” Wow… how does she do that? The excitement in her voice is palpable.  
“No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.”  
“Steven, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”  
“Mom, I’m fine. How’s Bob?” As ever, distraction is the best policy.

Later that evening, I call Ray, my stepdad, Mom’s Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Ray is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he’s not. Ray is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.

Friday night, Bucky and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings. Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Phil Coulson, clutching a bottle of champagne.  
“Phil! Great to see you!” I give him a quick hug. “Come in.”  
Phil is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did. We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Ray and Phillip Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too. Phil is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He’s pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Phil has a great eye for a good picture.  
“I have news.” He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.  
“Don’t tell me – you’ve managed not to get kicked out for another week,” I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.  
“The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month.”  
“That’s amazing – congratulations!” Delighted for him, I hug him again. Bucky beams at him too.  
“Way to go Phil! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening.” He grins.  
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” Phil looks intently at me. I flush.  
“Both of you, of course,” he adds, glancing nervously at Bucky.

Phil and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he’d like to be more. He’s cute and funny, but he’s just not for me. He’s more like the brother I never had. Bucky often teases me that I’m missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is – I just haven’t met anyone who… well, whom I’m attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that. Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers. NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you gay, Mr. Grinch? I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamt about him most nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely? I watch Phil open the bottle of champagne. He’s tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he’s all shoulders and muscles, light skin, brown hair and burning blue eyes. Yes, Phil’s pretty hot, but I think he’s finally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Phil looks up and smiles.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, John and Patrick – the two other part-timers – and I are all rushed off our feet. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up… and find myself locked in the bold green gaze of Gary Grinch who’s standing at the counter, staring at me intently.  
Heart failure.  
“Mr, Rogers. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense. Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice.  
“Mr. Grinch,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke.  
“I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things.  
It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Rogers.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something.  
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

“Steve. My name’s Steve,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Grinch?”  
He smiles, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.  
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” he murmurs, his green eyes cool but amused. Cable ties?  
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery.  
Get a grip, Rogers. A slight frown mars Grinch’s rather lovely bright green brow.  
“Please. Lead the way, Mr. Rogers,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.  
“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. I blush.  
“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautiful hairy hand.  
With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland? Why is he here at Clayton’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: he’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.  
“Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Steve!  
“I was visiting the WSU farming division. It’s based at Vancouver. I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.  
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.  
“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.  
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.  
“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.  
“Is there anything else?”  
“I’d like some masking tape.”  
Masking tape?  
“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?  
“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.  
Am I that funny? Funny looking?  
“This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”  
I glance behind me as he follows.  
“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, gray eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Rogers!  
“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.  
“I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him.  
Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.  
“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.  
“Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.  
“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.  
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… ” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.  
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”  
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot green gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more selfconscious?  
Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.  
“Were you a Girl Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth!  
“Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Grinch.”  
He arches a brow.  
“What is your thing, Steven?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Steve, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.  
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing!  
I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.  
“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?  
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”  
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer.  
Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.  
“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.  
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”  
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.  
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”  
He nods, green eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.  
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.  
He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.  
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.  
“I could always take them off.” He smirks.  
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.  
“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.  
I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.  
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.  
He ignores my inquiry.  
“How’s the article coming along?”  
He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty.  
“I’m not writing it, Bucky is. Mr. Barnes. My roommate, he’s the writer. He’s very happy with it. He’s the editor of the magazine, and he was devastated that he couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air – at last, a normal topic of conversation. “His only concern is that he doesn’t have any original photographs of you.”  
Grinch raises an eyebrow.  
“What sort of photographs does she want?”  
Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.  
“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” he trails off.  
“You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Bucky will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the silly, ridiculous…  
“Bucky will be delighted – if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.  
Oh my. Gary Grinch’s lost look.  
“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet.  
“My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.”  
“Okay.” I grin up at him. Bucky is going to be thrilled.  
“STEVEN!”  
Paul has materialized at other the end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Clayton’s youngest brother.I’d heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today.  
“Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Grinch.” Grinch frowns as I turn away from him.  
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Grinch, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Paul hugs me hard taking me by surprise.  
“Steve, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes.  
“Hello Paul, how are you? You home for your brother’s birthday?”  
“Yep. You’re looking well, Steve, really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Paul, but he’s always been over-familiar.   
When I glance up at Gary Grinch, he’s watching us like a hawk, his green eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else – someone cold and distant.  
“Paul, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grinch’s eyes. I drag Paul over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.  
“Er, Paul, this is Gary Grinch. Mr. Grinch, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.  
“I’ve known Paul ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Princeton where he’s studying business administration.” I’m babbling… Stop, now!  
“Mr. Clayton.” Christian holds his hand out, his look unreadable.  
“Mr. Grinch,” Paul returns his handshake. “Wait up – not the Gary Grinch? Of Grinch Enterprises Holdings?” Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grinch gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  
“Wow – is there anything I can get you?”  
“Steven has it covered, Mr. Clayton. He’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… it’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling.  
“Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Steve.”  
“Sure, Paul.” I watch him disappear toward the stock room. “Anything else, Mr. Grinch?”  
“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem?

I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.  
“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Grinch, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, his green eyes intense and smoky. It’s unnerving.  
“Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card.  
“Please, Steven.” His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic.  
I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.  
“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.  
“Good. Until tomorrow perhaps.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh – and Steven, I’m glad Mr. Barnes couldn’t do the interview.” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging testosterone. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet Earth.

Okay – I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely? No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Bucky and organize a photo-shoot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve realizes just how attracted he is to Mr. Grinch. "Oh you are a mean one." A/N- Send me help. I'm laughing so hard i can't breathe. Sex scenes are going to kill me.-

Bucky is ecstatic.  
“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” His curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.  
“He was in the area.”  
“I think that is one huge coincidence, Steve. You don’t think he was there to see you?” He speculates.   
My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on business.  
“He was visiting the farming division of WSU. He’s funding some research,” I mutter.  
“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”  
Wow.  
“How do you know this?”  
“Steve, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the guy. It’s my job to know this.”  
“Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”  
“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”  
“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”  
“You can contact him?”  
“I have his cell phone number.”  
Bucky gasps.   
“The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his cell phone number.”  
“Er… yes.”  
“Stevie! He likes you. No doubt about it.” His tone is emphatic.  
“Bucky, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Gary Grinch doesn’t do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Bucky is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Buck didn’t do the interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief moment. Bucky brings me back to the now.   
“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular photographer, can’t. He’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of America’s leading entrepreneurs.”  
“Hmm… What about Phil?”  
“Great idea! You ask him – he’ll do anything for you. Then call Grinch and find out where he wants us.” Bucky is irritatingly cavalier about Phil.  
“I think you should call him.”  
“Who, Phil?” Kate scoffs.  
“No, Grinch.”  
“Steve, you’re the one with the relationship.”  
“Relationship?” I squeak at him, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy.”  
“At least you’ve met him,” he says bitterly. “And it looks like he wants to know you better. Steve, just call him,” he snaps and hangs up. He is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.

I’m just leaving a message for Phil when Paul enters the stock room looking for sandpaper.  
“We’re kind of busy out there, Steve,” he says without acrimony.  
“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.  
“So, how come you know Gary Grinch? That handsome green fellow.” Paul’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.  
“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Bucky wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.  
“Gary Grinch in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?”  
Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Grinch? My subconscious asks me, his eyebrow figuratively raised.  
I slap him down.  
“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”  
“That’s tomorrow.”  
“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”  
“Steve, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.  
“But I do places, Steve, not people,” Phil groans.  
“Phil, please?” I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.  
“Give me that phone.” Bucky grabs the handset from me, tossing his silken dark black hair over his shoulder.  
“Listen here, Phillip Coulson, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?”Bucky can be awesomely tough.  
“Good. Steve will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.”  
She snaps my cell phone shut.  
“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” He holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.  
“Call Grinch, now!”  
I scowl at him and reach into my back pocket for the business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.

He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold.  
“Grinch.”  
“Err… Mr. Grimch? It’s Steven Rogers.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous.  
There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.  
“Mr. Rogers. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m suddenly conscious that Bucky Barnes is staring at me, his mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid his unwanted scrutiny.  
“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.” Breathe, Steve, breathe.  
My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”  
I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.  
“I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?”  
“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown man who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.  
“I look forward to it, Mr. Rogers.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his green eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise? I hang up. Bucky is in the kitchen, and he’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on his face.  
“Steven Grant Rogers. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”  
“Oh Buck, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. He blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”  
“Heathman, that figures,” mutters Bucky. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”  
“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with him as I open one of cupboards to make supper.  
I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of pea green eyes, coveralls, long legs, long hairy fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. Phil, Travis, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Bucky is in his CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is Phil’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Bucky has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When he explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Gary Grinch CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Grinch is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason. I suspect it’s Bucky’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he’s putty in Buck's hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished. It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Bucky is in full flow.

“Phil, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” He doesn’t wait for Phil's reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Steve, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grimch know where we are.”  
Yes, Master. He is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.

Half an hour later, Gary Grinch walks into our suite.  
Holy Crap! He’s wearing a dirty shirt, buttoned wrong, and grey flannel pants that hang from his furry hips. His unruly fur is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him… he’s so freaking hot. Grinch is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His hazel eyes watch us impassively.  
“Mr. Rogers, we meet again.” Grinch extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly. Oh my… he really is, quite… wow. As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.  
“Mr. Grinch, this is James Barnes,” I mutter, waving a hand toward Bucky who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.  
“The tenacious Mr. Barnes. How do you do?” He gives him a small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Steven said you were unwell last week.”  
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Grinch.” She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid.  
I remind myself that Bucky has been to the best private schools in Washington. His family has money, and he’s grown up confident and sure of his place in the world. He doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of him.  
“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” He gives him a polite, professional smile.  
“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his green gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.  
“This is Phil Coulson, our photographer,” I say, grinning at Phil who smiles with affection back at me. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Grinch.  
“Mr. Grinch,” he nods.  
“Mr. Coulson,” Grimch’s expression changes too as he appraises Phil.  
“Where would you like me?” Grinch asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Bucky is not about to let Phil run the show.  
“Mr. Grinc – if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” She directs him to a chair set up against the wall. Travis switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Grinch and mutters an apology.  
Then Travis and I stand back and watch as Phil proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs hand-held, asking Grinch to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, Phil takes several more, while Grinch sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Grinch from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from his mesmerizing gaze.  
“Enough sitting.” Bucky wades in again. “Standing, Mr. Grinch?” he asks.  
He stands, and Travis scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on Phil’s Nikon starts clicking again.  
“I think we have enough,” Phil announces five minutes later.  
“Great,” says Bucky. “Thank you again, Mr. Grinch.” She shakes his hand, as does Phil.  
“I look forward to reading the article, Mr. Barnes,” murmurs Grey, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Mr. Rogers?” he asks.  
“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Bucky, who shrugs at me. I notice Phil scowling behind her.  
“Good riddance to you all,” says Grinch as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.

Holy hell… what’s this about? What does he want? I pause in the hotel corridor, fidgeting nervously as Grinch emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz-Cut in his sharp suit.  
“I’ll call you, Max,” he murmurs to Buzz-Cut. Max wanders back down the corridor, and Grinch turns his burning green gaze to me. Crap… have I done something wrong?  
“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”  
My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Gary Grinch is asking me on a date. He’s asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.  
“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me.  
“MAX,” he calls, making me jump. Max, who had been retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us.  
“Are they based at the university?” Grinch asks, his voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.  
“Max can take them. He’s my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so he’ll be able to take the equipment too.”  
“Mr. Grinch?” Max asks when he reaches us, giving nothing away.  
“Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Mr. Barnes back home?”  
“Certainly, sir,” Max replies.  
“There. Now can you join me for coffee?” Grinch smiles as if it’s a done deal.  
I frown at him.  
“Um – Mr. Grinch, err – this really… look, Max doesn’t have to drive them home.” I flash a brief look at Max, who remains stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Bucky, if you give me a moment.”  
Grinch smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my… and he opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around him to enter the room, finding Bucky in deep discussion with Phil.  
“Stevie, I think he definitely likes you,” he says with no preamble whatsoever. Phil glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust him,” he adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that he’ll stop talking. By some miracle, he does.  
“Bucky, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?”  
“Why?”  
“Gary Grinch has asked me to go for coffee with him.”  
His mouth pops open. Speechless Bucky! I savor the moment. He grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.  
“Steve, there’s something about him.” His tone is full of warning. “He’s gorgeous, I agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”  
“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.  
“An innocent like you, Steve. You know what I mean,” she says a little irritated. I flush.  
“Bucky, it’s just coffee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won’t be long.”  
He purses his lips as if considering my request. Finally, he fishes his car keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. I hand him mine.  
“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and rescue.”  
“Thanks.” I hug him.  
I emerge from the suite to find Gary Grinch waiting, leaning up against the wall, looking like a male model in a pose for some glossy high-end magazine.  
“Okay, let’s do coffee,” I murmur, flushing a beet red.  
He grins.  
“After you, Mr. Rogers.” He stands up straight, holding his hand out for me to go first. I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with Gary Grinch... and I hate coffee.

We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to him? My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about? What on Earth do I have in common with him? His soft, warm voice startles me from my reverie.  
“How long have you known James Barnes?”  
Oh, an easy questions for starters.  
“Since our freshman year. He’s a good friend.”  
“Hmm,” he replies, non-committal. What is he thinking?  
At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Grinch and I step into the elevator.

I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Grinch through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have trashy piped music to distract us. The doors open and, much to my surprise, Grinch takes my hand, clasping it with his long hairy fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Grinch grins.  
“What is it about elevators?” he mutters.  
We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Grinch avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand. Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Grinch turns left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Gary Grinch is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Steve, my subconscious implores me. The okay to cross man appears, and we’re off again. We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grinch releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.

“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.  
“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”  
He raises his eyebrows.  
“No coffee?”  
“I’m not keen on coffee.”  
He smiles.  
“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”  
For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?  
“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.  
“Anything to eat?”  
“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.  
I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day… he’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a pot belly, and the way those pants hang from his hips… Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Grinch is back, startling me.  
I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your fur and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Twinings English Breakfast’ – my favorite. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful dog imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also brought himself a pile of glass. Putting the tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.  
“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.  
“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Gary Grinch in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head gazing quizzically at me.  
“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.  
“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”  
Whoa… What?  
“Who?”  
“The photographer. Phillip Coulson.”  
I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?  
“No. Phil’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”  
“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His green gaze holds mine. He’s so unnerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.  
“He’s more like family,” I whisper.  
Grinch nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his glass pile. His long fingers deftly pick up a piece, place it in his mouth and grab another piece, I watch, fascinated.  
“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.  
“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.  
“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”  
“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?”  
“You seem nervous around men.”  
Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grinch.  
“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.  
“You should find me intimidating,” he nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”  
Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.  
“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a mystery, Mr. Rogers.  
Mysterious? Me?  
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”  
“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.  
Am I? Wow… how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained?  
No Way.  
“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of glass into his mouth and starts to chew it  
slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!  
“Do you always make such personal observations?”  
“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.  
“No,” I answer truthfully.  
“Good.”  
“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.  
He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.  
“I’m used to getting my own way, Steven,” he murmurs. “In all things.”  
“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him.  
It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.  
“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”  
Oh. He still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Gary.’ He is a control freak, there’s no other  
explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Bicky had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. And he’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Gary and Bucky. I take a sip of my tea, and Grinch eats another small piece of his glass.  
“Are you an only child?” he asks.  
Whoa… he keeps changing direction.  
“Yes.”  
“Tell me about your parents.”  
Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.  
“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”  
“Your father?”  
“My father died when I was a baby.”  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.  
“I don’t remember him.”  
“And your mother remarried?”  
I snort.  
“You could say that.”  
He frowns at me.  
“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.  
“Neither are you.”  
“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.  
Holy shit. He’s remembering the ‘gay’ question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my mother – anything to block that memory.  
“My mom is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth husband.”  
Gary raises his eyebrows in surprise.  
“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my mom for so long. Gary is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.  
“Do you get along with your stepfather?”  
“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”  
“And what’s he like?”  
“Ray? He’s… taciturn.”  
“That’s it?” Grinch asks, surprised.  
I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?  
“Taciturn like his stepdaughter,” Grinch prompts.  
I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.  
“He likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.  
“You lived with him?”  
“Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray.”  
He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.  
“You didn’t want to live with your mom?” he asks.  
I blush. This really is none of his business.  
“Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you know my mom was newly married.” I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Grinch going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.  
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.  
He shrugs.  
“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”  
Oh… he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.  
“What do your siblings do?”  
“Clint’s in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.  
“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?  
“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.  
“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?  
“Would you like to go?”  
“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”  
He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.  
“Because?”  
I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Rogers.  
“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.”  
All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.  
“I’d better go. I have to study.”  
“For your exams?”  
“Yes. They start Tuesday.”  
“Where’s Mr. Barnes’ car?”  
“In the hotel parking lot.”  
“I’ll walk you back.”  
“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grinch.”  
He smiles his odd I’ve got a whopping big secret smile.  
“You’re welcome, Steven. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop. We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m not sure what it is.  
“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.  
“Mostly.”  
He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question… And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.  
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap - I just said that out loud?  
His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.  
“No, Steven. I don’t do the boyfriend thing,” he says softly.  
Oh… what does that mean? He’s not straight? Oh, maybe he is - crap! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.  
“Shit, Steven!” Grey cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street. "You're more unstable than a pile of pizza boxes on beer cans!"  
It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms, and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. .I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered trash cans and some expensive body-wash that also smelled of trash. Oh my, it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.  
“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it’s forever… but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. Oh my. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on me.


End file.
